The One Where Sam Sleeps with a Ghost
by Kansas42
Summary: Another misadventure in the love life of Sam Winchester. All Sam wanted was a normal life. Too bad that ship had sailed, oh, 22 or so years ago. Very light Sam/OC. Some hurtDean! thrown in too.


A/N: This is just a little fun piece I was playing with awhile ago. Smidgen of angst, much more fluff. Some supposedly "mature" scenes but, honestly, I'm just not that graphic. Disney movies probably show more than I what I give. This fic takes place sometime during Season 3. Spoilers up to AHBL II.

Summary: Another misadventure in the love life of Sam Winchester. All Sam wanted was a normal life. Too bad that ship had sailed, oh, 22 or so years ago. Very light Sam/OC. Some hurtDean! thrown in too.

"The One Where Sam Sleeps with a Ghost"

I.

Madison's the first girl Sam has sex with after Jessica. So, of course, she's a werewolf.

The second girl he sleeps with is a ghost.

Well. Sort of.

He meets her in Virginia, investigating the death of 22 year old Olivia Parker. Dean and Sam decide to divide and conquer—Dean takes the next door neighbor, who just happens to be a hot yoga instructor (typical), and Sam gets Olivia's best friend, who, in Dean's assessment, is the "slightly creepy chick with no tits". Sam thinks she's okay—well, he doesn't mean her _tits_, Jesus, he just—he means her personality, you know, not—not that there's anything wrong with her tits—Christ, just because she isn't busty enough to work at Hooters or something—not—not that he was looking at her—y'know, he's just going to stop while he's ahead. Although, he's pretty sure that ship has already sailed, maybe sometime around 22 and half years ago.

Anyway. Clairee's okay—sure, she's obviously stressed out and, yeah, maybe a little in shock—she's got this habit of speaking in short, staccato sentences, her eyes never really focused on much of anything—but hell, her best friend just died, was _eaten_ by something that Sam doubts like hell was an animal. The girl's earned the right to be a little stressed out.

_We-ird_, Dean says when Sam defends Clairee, and Sam just sighs, shakes his head a little. Sometimes, he wants to slap his brother. Usually, he just settles for rolling his eyes.

While Dean goes off and "interrogates" Mrs. Look-How-I-Can-Bend, Sam takes Clairee out to a coffee shop to talk. "I know it can be difficult," he says, placing the latte in front of her. "But I need you to tell me anything you think of.

Clairee doesn't have much to tell him. She doesn't really remember anything. "We were in the car," she says. "Something was in the road. Shadow. Couldn't see it, really. Maybe an animal. I don't know. We tried to avoid it. Went off the road. When I woke up . . ."

Sam knows what happened when she woke up. Clairee survived the crash, only to discover her best friend's body ten feet away and chomped to pieces.

"They said it was coyotes," Clairee says. She stares off a little in space. "I don't remember coyotes . . ."

"Do you think it was something else?" Sam asks her. "No matter how crazy it sounds, you can tell me, Clairee."

Clairee looks at him, smiles a little. "Crazy," she says. "Crazy, I believe in."

II.

Dean screws the yoga instructor ("twice!" Dean exclaims while changing his shirt) but otherwise doesn't learn anything really worthwhile from her. Not that Sam had been expecting much. The woman was about as bright as a grapefruit.

Sam shares this assessment with Dean. His brother shrugs. "Whatever," he says.

Anyway, Sam's not so concerned about this lack of new info, at least, not after they visit the crash site. The surrounding woods practically scream with the signs of a black dog, and when Sam mentions it, Dean concurs with his opinion. Then, he grins and starts to sing "Black Dog," just to be annoying. Sam thinks about slapping him and rolls his eyes instead. He tells Dean they should probably go back to get more supplies. Black Dogs can be tricky.

Dean agrees with him. And this, of course, is when the black dog attacks him.

Later, Sam will say that the Black Dog would never have attacked if Dean hadn't practically called him out by singing Zeppelin at the top of his lungs. Right now, though, Sam doesn't have time to be witty or snarky, no matter how much his brother deserves it. He takes out his gun and shoots at the dog, but the dog jumps around and dodges the bullet because this isn't exactly Lassie they're dealing with. Meanwhile, Dean is lying on the ground, unconscious, and there's a lot of blood coming from his forehead. His new shirt isn't looking too hot, either. Looks like the Black Dog took a chunk out of Dean's side.

_Jesus. Jesus. JesusJesusJesus._

Sam doesn't have time to reload the gun before the Black Dog is charging him. He barely dodges out of the way and lands near Dean's bag of supplies. The first thing Sam can put his frantic hands on is a flare gun. It wouldn't be Sam's first choice, but it'll do the trick.

The Black Dog charges again, and Sam fires the flare at it. The Black Dog turns, so it doesn't hit him, but it definitely freaks him the hell out. He jumps back, away from the fire, and it gives Sam enough time to reload his gun. He gets the Black Dog with the second shot, confirms the kill, and then rushes to his brother's side.

"Dean?" Sam says. "Dean? Dean?" He taps Dean on the face and tries various pain responses. Dean doesn't respond to any of them, and Sam isn't thrilled with how pale he looks. The bite on his stomach looks nasty but not deadly, provided an infection doesn't set in. But that head wound . . . that head wounds looks . . ._Jesus. JesusJesusJesusCHRIST._

Sam takes Dean by the arms and tries to pick him up, but he just can't do it, even though he's four inches taller. His brother is _built,_ and normally that's a good thing, but right now all his muscle is just getting in the fucking way. Sam can do nothing but drag Dean back to the car, and it's a long drag. Sam's muscles are screaming.

Dean doesn't wake up.

Sam piles him in the backseat and drives to beat the devil down to the county hospital. Dean stays silent the entire time, the blood from his head doing godknowswhat to the upholstery.

"When you wake up," Sam says, "try to remember that it was _your_ blood that ruined the seats." _If you wake up. If._

Dean bleeds. Sam drives faster.

III.

He's waiting at the Emergency Room and he's getting pretty tired of Emergency Rooms, feels he's spent his whole damn life in one, sometimes as a patient, more often as a loved one. Plastic chairs and crappy vending machines and people with sincere smiles that won't tell you a _godamned thing_. Sam has been asked to stop pacing around the chairs because he's making all those other loved ones a weensie-bit nervous.

Sam wants to punch the nurse in the face. _Jesus, stop channeling Dean_, he tells himself. He realizes that he might have to literally channel Dean if Dean doesn't make it through this.

_Jesus._

He ends up pacing just outside the ER, unable to keep his body still any longer. Clairee finds him punching his fist into the wall. (_Well, it's better than the charge nurse's face_, he thinks.) Sam looks at Clairee almost apologetically. "My brother," he says, explaining.

She nods. She has a curious way of not looking at anyone when she speaks, as if her mind and her body aren't exactly working on the same wavelength. "I'm sorry," she says.

"So'm I."

They're standing there quietly for awhile as Sam nurses his potentially broken hand. "I'm not ready," he says, more to himself than to her. He's supposed to have months left with his brother. He's not ready to let go.

"I wasn't either," Clairee says. "I'm still not. I think that's why I'm here."

"At the hospital, you mean?"

Clairee shrugs.

Sam starts to pace again, going round in circles like a dog chasing after its tail. That's how his whole life has felt, hasn't it? Just round and round again, useless circles, chasing after an impossible dream. Chasing after normality as if Stanford could make him normal too. Chasing after the Demon as if vengeance could fulfill what he had lost. Chasing after a miracle to save Dean's soul . . . and he isn't even going to get the chance to use one. Not even the chance to try, because six months short of the deadline, Dean is going to di—

"Hey." Clairee has her hand on his chest, looking at him in the eyes for maybe the first time. Sam realizes that he is on the verge of hyperventilating. "It's okay. It's okay."

Sam feels tears in his eyes, sobs in his throat desperate to break loose. He tells himself that he can't break down yet. Dean might be fine; Dean _will_ be fine, dammit, and he can't sob over some stranger's shoulder, some girl who has her own grief to bear. Ten seconds later, tears are pouring down his face, and Clairee has her arms wrapped around his body. She's average height for a girl, which means her head only barely reaches Sam's chest. He tightens his arms around her and lets all the tears come out.

A few minutes later, Clairee has pulled back just a little in his grasp—not out of his arms but enough so that she can see more of Sam than his shirt. Her hands move on his back, down and down till they're . . . not on his back.

He jerks a little, starts to pull back, and Clairee holds on to him tightly. "Please," she says. "Please. I'd give anything to feel alive again." He pulls back a second time and she continues to hold on. "Sam," she says. "Please."

Sam shakes his head. "I can't—I—you—you're vulnerable, and I—I won't—I can't—Dean might need m—". He stops, trails off, knowing that full sentences are clearly not on the menu yet. Anyway, he's trying to articulate too many things, and he's not sure if he knows what half of them are. Just, he knows that it'd be wrong to sleep with her now, just as he knows that he suddenly very much wants to. The nervous energy that's been building inside of him has quickly turned into a very different kind of energy.

Clairee can tell, because she's pressed right against him. "You're not taking advantage," she says. "I want this."

"Clairee—"

"Sam. Please. Please." She touches his face. "I _need_ this." And she stands up as tall as she can get, pulls his head towards her and kisses him.

It's the end of the argument.

They end up in the backseat of her car, Sam partially thinking that he must still be channeling Dean, mostly not thinking anything at all. It's awkward as hell—he wouldn't fit back here if he were five inches shorter—and she's crying even as she's taking off his shirt—but it's also physical and mindless and pure _contact_, skin upon skin upon sweat and upon need. They both need_ release_ for their own separate reasons, and as Sam slides into her, they both let themselves go.

When it's over, Sam is wondering how he'll ever move again—Dean's yoga instructor would be impressed with the positions he and Clairee have managed to get into. Clairee's eyes are closed as she breathes heavily. "Thank you," she says quietly.

Sam feels a little strange about saying you're welcome, so he says nothing at all.

"The crash," Clairee says, eyes open and unfocused again. "I just—I never thought it would happen like that. I thought—I thought it'd be later. I thought I'd be old. I thought I'd be ready."

Sam starts to nod and then frowns at her words. _Old_? "What do you mean?" he asks.

She smiles a little. It's a sad, resigned sort of smile. "I didn't know what had happened," she tells him. "We were driving too fast. Couldn't brake in time. We went off the road. Everything went black. Everything, just gone. Gone, like it never was. When I woke up, I was looking down . . . I was looking down . . . at myself. My body, it looked—it didn't even look like me. But it was me. It was. Torn apart, bitten. Chewed. Chewed like a godamn chewtoy. Coyotes, they said. They said it was coyotes. I never woke up. I never woke up. By the time I woke up, I was dead." Clairee's tears slid silently down her face. "I wasn't ready," she tells him. "I wasn't ready."

Sam stares at her, jaw hanging open. _I'd give anything to feel alive again_, she had said. He hadn't taken her literally. Apparently, he should have.

_I wasn't ready. I'm still not. I think that's why I'm here._

"_Olivia_?" he asks.

Olivia looks at him through Clairee's eyes. "I wasn't ready," she says again and looks down at her hands, _Clairee's_ hands. "I shouldn't have done this to her," Olivia says. "I don't think I meant to, at first. I just sort of . . . slid in . . .I . . . I wasn't ready. I woke up dead, don't you understand? I didn't even know what was happening. I didn't mean . . . I didn't mean . . . I shouldn't have down this to her. She's my best friend, you know? I'm glad she made it out."

She looks up at him, eyes still full of tears. "Do you know?" she asks him. "Do you know what happened to me?"

Sam nods, slowly. What he really wants to do is get the hell out of this car, but he's still twisted all around Clairee—Olivia—and, also, mostly naked. Pride really shouldn't come before survival, but, sometimes, it just does. "It wasn't coyotes," he tells her. "There are things out there, bad things, monsters. What attacked you . . . it's something called a Black Dog. We killed it. It won't hurt anyone ever again."

Olivia nods, looking downwards again. "Good," she says. "That's good."

Slowly, Sam begins to disentangle himself from the half-naked, possessed girl. He pulls his jeans up to his waist and starts hunting around for his shirt on the floor. He doesn't have a weapon on him, and for that, he is sorry. He doesn't really think Olivia will hurt him, but . . . he's been wrong before.

_We-ird_, Dean had called Clairee. Christ, Sam _hated_ it when Dean was right.

_Dean_.

"Olivia," Sam begins to say but is quickly cut off.

"I have to let her go," Olivia says. "She doesn't deserve this. She doesn't . . . she's a good person." Olivia looks at Sam, touches one hand to his cheek. "You are too," she says. "Thank you."

Sam still feels awkward about saying you're welcome, so this time he just shrugs. Olivia smiles a little and leans in to kiss him. Sam almost pulls back but doesn't. _Don't piss off a ghost who's got you by the balls._ The advice is pure Dean. Also, it's pretty solid. Sam closes his eyes, puts his hand on her hand as their lips meet.

After a minute, her lips are frantically pulled back. A mostly naked Clairee is left staring at half-naked Sam. "Who—what—who the hell are _you_?" she shrieks.

Sam's mouth drops open again. "Uh . . ."

_Yeah, Olivia. Thank you, too_.

IV.

Later that evening, Sam is sitting by Dean's bedside. Mostly, Dean's okay—pretty serious concussion that the docs are monitoring, leaving him a little disoriented and a whole lot nauseous. Dean, of course, had tried to leave immediately upon waking up. Sam had let him get about three steps before Dean's own dizziness had left him in Sam's arms again.

"Okay," Dean had said, hands firmly pressed into the floor as if trying to anchor himself on a spinning ship. "Maybe I'll stay. You know. One night."

Sam had snorted. "Okay, Dean," he had said and helped his brother back up.

That was hours ago. Now, Dean is lying in his bed and listening to the less than wholesome bedtime story of Sam's encounter with Olivia via Clairee. Dean's jaw is hanging slightly open. "You screwed a dead chick?" he asks incredulously.

Not for the first time, Sam wishes he had just lied when Dean had asked him what was wrong. Why Dean could be utterly clueless during a normal, just two-brothers-on-the-road day and freakishly observant on a concussion-after-Black-Dog-tried-to-eat-me day was a complete mystery to Sam. He had decided to tell Dean about Olivia while conveniently leaving out to sex in the backseat thing. It didn't pan out. Dean had radar for such things, like being able to sniff out the last beer in the back of a fridge.

"_No_," Sam says, annoyed. "I didn't have sex with a dead chick. I . . . slept with Clairee. Who happened to be possessed by her dead friend."

"Uh-huh." Dean grins. "Fuckin perv."

Sam sighs and considers the possible ramifications of slapping a concussed person upside the head. He rolls his eyes instead. "Asshole," he says, amiably enough.

"Necro," Dean replies. He tries to sit up a little more in bed and immediately takes on a decidedly green tinge. Sam grabs the emesis basin (_barf bucket_) quickly and holds it under Dean's mouth while he pukes. "You okay?" he asks after a minute. "I can call the nurse."

Dean waves this off. Sam puts the bucket away and sits back down, suddenly feeling very drained. It's just been that kind of day.

Almost losing your brother and having sex with a ghost. Anybody would feel beat.

Sam had offered to drive Clairee home, but she hadn't been particularly enthusiastic about it. "Sorry," she'd said. "But I just met you. Or, you know, whatever." Her memories of the last week were present but foggy, as if she'd been dreaming since she'd woken up. Sam told her that Olivia should be at rest now. "It's over," he had said.

Clairee had looked away then, biting her lip. "Only for her," she had said. "It's not over for me."

Sam thinks about that now as he sits by Dean. Clairee had been violated, as much by Sam as by Olivia. How did someone get over something like that? How did someone move on? Maybe there was no way to move forward—maybe people who break are broken forever. Sam should know that, better than most. He's been marked since he was six months old.

He had tried to get away from it, tried to move past it, and then Jessica was murdered. The supernatural followed him everywhere, even when he tried to avoid. Madison . . . Clairee . . . maybe there was no way around it. Maybe he's a magnet for the dark and the unnatural.

Maybe he'll always be like this. Maybe he's dark and unnatural too . . .

"Oh, Jesus, Sam. Would you shut up already?"

Sam looks at Dean, frowning. "I didn't say anything."

"Good Christ, Sammy. You didn't have to. People over in _China_ could hear you brooding." Dean tries to sit up again, the movement obviously making him queasy. He waits a minute for the nausea to settle and then looks back at Sam. "There's nothing wrong with you, Sammy. Nothing a haircut wouldn't fix, anyway."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "I'm not normal," he says.

"Well, Jesus, Sam, who is? People who don't hunt demons? People who live in their cookie-cutter houses, living their cookie-cutter lives, watching soaps and football and fucking CSI?" Dean shakes his head. "You should know by now, Sam, even the normal people are all fucked up. Everybody's a freak. They're just freaky in different ways."

Sam snorts softly, looks down at his hands. "Thanks for the pep talk, man," he says.

"Fuck off."

Dean starts to turn green again, and Sam fetches the barf bucket. When Dean's done, Sam presses the call light and asks the nurse for some anti-nausea meds, ignoring Dean's claims that he's "fine." Within ten minutes of receiving them, Dean is on the verge of passing out. " 'am?"

Sam looks up from his chair. "Yeah?"

"Don't—"Dean yawns. "Don't stay 'ere, man. Go t'a motel, somethin. Don't—don't need to be 'ere."

"Okay," Sam says indifferently. Dean glares suspiciously at him for about ten seconds before promptly falling asleep. Sam sinks a little lower into his chair, making himself comfortable for the night. He looks at his big brother.

"Night, Dean," he says.

V.

The next day, Dean gets discharged, and they pack up their things, decide to get the hell out of dodge. They don't have a destination yet, but that's okay. Sometimes, they don't need one. It's just good to _go_.

Sam can tell Dean feels better than he did yesterday. Sam feels a little better too. "Hey, man," he says as he turns onto the interstate.

Dean flicks a glance at him. "Yeah?"

"About last night—you know, pep talk and all, just—thanks. You know. For . . ."

"Saying you aren't the only freak out there?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Pretty much."

Dean eyes him seriously for a moment. "Sam," he says. "There's nothing wrong with you. Whatever the Demon did to you before, it's gone now. You're not, I don't know cursed or whatever it is you think you are. You've had some bad shit happen. But you're gonna pull through. You just gotta believe it."

Sam looks at him. "Thanks," he says again, quietly.

Dean shrugs. "Yeah." He turns up the music, put his foot upon the dash. "Just, you know, stop screwing dead chicks. Necrophilia's fuckin creepy."

Sam considers just rolling his eyes. He slaps Dean upside the head instead.

"_Ow_! Dude, what the hell?"

Sam smiles and drives on.

-Fin


End file.
